


Origin of our Stars

by TheRedPalaaladin (Thighz)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Blades of Marmora Origin, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Mild spoilers for season 4, Origin Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2019-02-08 03:13:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12855507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thighz/pseuds/TheRedPalaaladin
Summary: Blaytz is a risk-taker. He’s a smooth-talker and all he has do to get someone into his bed is wiggle his antennas, give them a sly grin and they’re all his. It’s a simple thing, easy to do and worksforty-twopercent of the time.A Blades of Marmora Origin story





	Origin of our Stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maderi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maderi/gifts).



> I made [this](http://gabrielsthighz.tumblr.com/post/164040081013/blaytz-and-the-male-servant-getting-married) post a few months back and it gained so much love that the lovely Mechformers came to me and commissioned out a full-length origin story.
> 
> For those unfamiliar with Voltron 'time' (taken from the Voltron Paladin Handbook):
> 
>  **Deca-phoeb** \- Year  
>  **Phoeb** \- Month  
>  **Movement** \- Week  
>  **Quintant** \- Day  
>  **Varga** \- Hour  
>  **Dobosh** \- Minute  
>  **Tick** \- a tad longer than a second
> 
>  
> 
> This took me quite a bit of time to write, as I wanted to make sure I had all the Voltron seasons up to date and as much Blade lore out as possible. We are still seriously lacking, but I hope I do it all justice.
> 
> Without further ado...
> 
>  
> 
> _Enjoy_

 

 

 

**Origin of our Stars**

_A Blades of Marmora Origin Story_

 

 

 

 

Blaytz is a risk-taker. He’s a smooth-talker and all he has do to get someone into his bed is wiggle his antennas, give them a sly grin and they’re all his. It’s a simple thing, easy to do and works  _ forty-two _ percent of the time. 

Except when cock-blocks like Zarkon and his snooty ‘ _ We don’t fraternize with the servant-class _ ’ cuts his flirting short. Which isn’t new, per say, Blaytz has tried to entice many an alien beauty into his lion for a quick fondue after a battle, but sure enough, Zarkon is always at his shoulder.

With his curt, ‘ _ Blaytz _ ’ and his snappish ‘ _ Stop that’ _ . 

Blaytz sighs to himself, hands deep in the pockets of his pants as he walks the corridors of Zarkon’s massive home. He spots Trigel heading into the library, a tower of books between her arms as one of the many Galra servants opens the door for her. She thanks him profusely and the door clicks shut. 

He wonders if he should go in search of Gyrgan and do some combat exercises. Legs gotta stick together you know. 

“Looking for something?” Alfor’s voice stops him near the steps to the atrium and Blaytz glances back. 

“Just-.” Blaytz weighs the price of telling Alfor that he’s going in search of the kitchen staff. Alfor and Zarkon are ridiculously close. Scary close, it seems on the battlefield, but that’s not any of Blaytz’s business. 

Alfor’s smile is slow and knowing, he waves an elegant hand, “Don’t let Zarkon catch you.” And walks past Blaytz and down the stairs, whistling all the way.

Blaytz watches him for a tick before hurrying down the steps and around another corner, where he knows the kitchen staff retreats to clean the ware. The hallway leading to it is different than the rest of the castle, still clean, but somehow older and well-used. No doubt the servants didn’t need fancy upgrades like the rest of the castle. 

Blaytz scrunches his nose up as he walks. He likes Zarkon just fine, but on his planet, having servants is frowned upon. It never even crossed his mind to have lower-class Nalquod’s do his bidding. 

The back room is bustling with smaller Galra by the time he arrives, carrying ware and munching on leftovers from the celebratory meal. A few stop and stare at him in awe as he steps through the doors, but say nothing. 

It only takes a second for Blaytz to find his mark. 

He’s standing near the sink, arms up to his elbows covered in green suds. Blatyz can make out the sharp points of his ears, marking him as a lower-class Galra, and the ridges of his rounded head. His fur is a lush, pale lavender, clashing horribly with the uniform Zarkon makes his servants wear. 

Blaytz’s insides sigh a little at the sight of him. 

One of the other servants elbows his mark and whispers something in a language Blaytz doesn’t recognize. The mark turns slowly, confusion bunching his features up until he spots Blaytz across the busy kitchen. Recognition is swift and powerful, but the smile that follows is wry and disappointing. 

Blaytz can feel his ears drooping at the prospect of rejection,  _ again _ , but decides to risk it. He keeps his pace casual as he crosses the scant distance between them. He sheds his gauntlets and rolls up his sleeves, putting a hand out for the dish in the servant's grasp. 

Bright violet eyes widen, and he stumbles over his words, “No, Paladin.” His fingers tighten around the dish, “You should not.”

Blaytz lowers his head between them, “On my planet, we help clean up after our meals.” 

“But you are not on your planet.” The Galra sighs, “You are not required to help here, not after a battle.”

“I think that’s my choice.” Blaytz wiggles his fingers, “Let me help.” 

The servant relents and hands it over. Blaytz grabs a cloth to dry it off and sets it down the line. They move like that for a short time before he finally gathers up the rest of his courage to ask for the one thing he wants the most.

“Can I have your name?” 

The servant blinks, turning to him and handing over another dish, “Marmora.” 

Blaytz tries the name in his mouth with his native tongue and frowns, “Are all Galra names a mouthful?” 

Marmora’s laughter is lilting and throaty, absolutely beautiful, “You may call me Mora. Everyone else does.” 

“Mora.” Blaytz whispers, like a secret that only they know, “I’m Blaytz. Blue Paladin.” He grins and winks.

Mora laughs again, shakes his head and scrubs at another dish, “Yes. I know who you are.” 

“Get a room.” One of the other servant’s groans from behind them. 

Blaytz chuckles, “Baby steps, my friends.” 

“Think you’ll be that lucky?” Mora sends him a sly look, “I am not so easily swayed, and I know that was your original intention at the feast.” 

Blaytz gasps, pressing a sopping wet hand to his chest, smearing bubbles all over his shirt, “I was merely inviting you to dine with us.”

“To dine with  _ you _ .” Mora eyes him dubiously, “And dessert afterwards, I assume.” He turns away and puts his nose in the air, continues to wash the ware, “I am aware of your promiscuity.” 

Blaytz frowns down at the dish he’s currently drying, slows his movements. He wasn’t aware his flirting had been taken that way. 

“A little harmless flirting with local beauties does not mean I’ve taken them all to my bed.” He sets the dish down, a little harder than he intended.

He doesn’t look over at Mora, but the silence is telling.

“I’ve insulted you.” Mora sighs heavily, “Not my intention.” 

Blaytz waves a hand, a little stung, but nothing he can’t jump back from, “I’m a horrible flirt, but you witnessed the one person in the galaxy that ensures I don’t get laid.” He forces a grin up and glances over at Mora.

Mora is wearing a deep frown and his fingers are barely brushing the surface of the rapidly cooling water, “You truly meant for me to just sit and enjoy the meal with you.”

Blaytz lowers his ears, “Of course. Where I’m from, sharing a celebratory meal includes everyone. Not just those of a higher class.” He ducks his head and shrugs one shoulder, “Plus, I thought you were cute and I kinda wanted to get to you before one of the others did.”

Mora just shakes his head, “You are the only paladin to express an interest in me.”

Good.

_ Good. _

Blaytz can’t stop the grin, genuine and full, from splitting across his face, “Does this mean you’ll let me share a meal with you?” 

Mora reaches into the sink and pulls the plug, “Meet me in the west foyer in one varga.” Those dark purple eyes meet Blaytz’s blue ones across the suds and clean dishes, “You’ll have my answer.”

Blaytz nods and folds the towel, draping it over the sink and leaving Marmora and the rest of the servants to their evening tasks. He escapes through the hallway and back into the atrium, glancing around to make sure no one can see him leaving. 

He makes it to the west foyer, which he realizes is where his and Trigel’s rooms are located. Blaytz frowns when he reaches his own door, looks left and right down the hall. 

“Did you lose the key again?” Trigel grumbles from behind him, carrying yet another stack of books, this one smaller, to her room. 

“No.” Blaytz pouts, but he walks across the hall to help her with her own key. 

Trigel gives him a smile as he takes half the books and sets them on her home-away-from-home desk near the widow of the room. She smoothed out her robes and turns to face Blaytz. Her eyes are sharp, not a hair of her out of place despite the book-carrying and the dusty old library she’d been in. 

“I do hope you’re keeping yourself out of trouble.”

“You wound me.” Blaytz complains, “I’m nothing if not upstanding.”

“Uh-huh.” She eyes him, squints a bit, “Try not break anything.” 

“Again. Ouch.” Blaytz shuffles out of the room, but sends her a grin and a wave, which she returns as he closes the door behind him. 

“Ah.” 

Blaytz glances up at the soft exclamation and spots Marmora, wringing his hands at Blaytz’s door. He’s out of his servant uniform now and is instead dressed in soft cream-colored pants and shirt. 

His heart's do a flip in his chest and his ears twitch at the sight. 

“You-uh-.” Blaytz scratches the back of his head.

Mora is still looks nervous, but he smiles, “ _ Now _ you lose your charm and wit?” 

“I’ve never gotten this far, to be honest.” Blaytz chuckles nervously, “I figured you’d want to sneak a meal from the kitchen or something.”

Mora hums, stepping forward, “Perhaps after.”

Blaytz squeaks, “A-after?” 

Warm, furred hands slide up Blaytz’s chest, to his neck, where sharp claws skim along the flesh. His insides twist pleasantly, and his own hands find purchase on Mora’s slim hips. Mora hums again, almost a purr as he presses closer, fingers crawling up to the gills on Blaytz’s neck.

“Are your people aquatic?” Mora asks, “Are these gills?”

Blaytz swallows thickly, can smell the spice and pheromones from the Galra’s fur, and it’s only making him hungrier. All he can do is nod, eyes searching Mora’s for some hint, some sort of clue as to why he’s changed his mind.

“I’m curious.” Mora’s voice is husky, alluring, “Are they sensitive?” One of his fingertips brushes the lower gill and Blaytz shivers, swallows.

He glides a hand up Mora’s back and curls it around the back of his head.

“Wanna find out?”

Mora melts against him, mouth offered and ready for a kiss that Blaytz happily gives. The ‘yes’ is breathy against his lips and tastes of the berries from the evening dessert. 

Blaytz pulls out his key and drags Mora into his room.

  
  
  


-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

  
  


The blue paladin is a curious creature. 

He also snores, chews too loud, and can sweet-talk his way out of  _ any _ situation. All observations Marmora has made since Zarkon welcomed the Paladins into his home. 

He has no qualms in allowing himself dalliances with an alien as handsome and charismatic as Blaytz. The blue paladin is discreet and charming, quick with a smile and never hesitating to help the servants around him if Zarkon isn’t scowling over his shoulder.

Marmora is no stranger to beneficial friends. He survives in a world where marriage between servants only ensures another generation to serve the higher-class. Something they all try to avoid in fruitless hope that some quintant all Galra will be free to work as they choose.

So, he enjoys the nights the paladins of Voltron stumble through the castle doors and to their respective rooms, because it means Blaytz is among them. 

Trigel is engaging everyone with her tales of battle and what she found to research on neighboring planets. Gyrgan settles in with his religious readings and enjoys the rambunctious pictionary of Blaytz and Alfor as Trigel speaks. Zarkon hovers in the background with his wife, ensuring her of their safety before she heads back down to her research.  

Mora notices she looks tired, smile worn thin, but she kisses Zarkon and disappears from the room. 

The servants watch with rapt attention as Blaytz and Alfor continue their performance of battle. Blaytz favors the dual scimitars and he brandishes them heroically. Alfor is grinning like a mad-man, pretending to be the enemy. 

Mora leans against the frame of the door and watches, silent and amused. 

Blaytz catches him in the evening, eyes bright and slightly tipsy from Galra alcohol. Mora can smell it on him as he ushers him into a small alcove.

“Got something for you.” Blaytz mumbles, nuzzling at his cheek. 

Mora blinks, “You-.” He clears his throat, trying to ignore the distracting hands petting the fur at his hips, “You got me something?”

“Yea.” Blaytz pulls away and one of the hands leaves, rummages around in his parachute pants, “Just saw it and thought of you.” 

Mora watches him pull out a small knife. It’s very small, easily concealable, sharp and curved along the blade. The handle is wrapped in deep purple silk. He takes it from Blaytz with shaking hands.

“This is-.”

“A gift.” Blaytz grins, “Figured I could teach you some of my moves, but in a smaller form.” He points down at the blade, “Ya know, in case the castle every gets attacked and Voltron isn’t here in time.”

Mora’s eyes dart up, “You think I don’t know how to handle a blade?” 

One of Blaytz’s antennas flickers and his eyes widen, “Do you?” He leans forward with a hushed whisper.

“Of course.” Mora huffs in irritation, “My father taught me.” 

“Well, then.” Blaytz smiles, “You’ll have to spar with me sometime.”

Mora tilts his head and returns the smile, rolling the blade between his hands, “I look forward to it.” 

  
  


-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

  
  


He expects the gift to be a one-time occurrence. A simple, ‘thanks for a good time, here’s a gift’ type of thing. Mora has no idea how the Nalquod’s show thanks for recreational sex, so he assumes the over-the-top gift is where it ends. 

Except it doesn’t.

Blaytz returns often and with a new gift every time. Some big, others small and nearly meaningless. 

Marmora treasures every single one of them. He hides them in his floorboards and takes them out when he’s feeling lonely. Each one strikes a chord deep down inside of him, opening a chasm he’s afraid he’ll never be able to close.

“Oh.” Triyak enters through the door of their shared quarters, dark fur sticky and slick from working out in the garden, “Are you being courted?”

Mora shakes his head and carefully sets the items back in their hiding place, “Ah no. He is just being friendly.”

Triyak frowns and squints down at him, “Are they not Galra?” 

Mora winces, pushes himself back up into a standing position, “They are merely being kind.” He uses his foot to ensure the floorboard is back in its proper place. 

“That’s a lot of kindness.” Triyak snorts, “Do they know Galra courting rituals?”

“Of course not.” Mora hisses, shooing him towards the showers, “And it’s rude to turn down a gift from another species just because they don’t realize the implications of something so trivial.”

Triyak digs his feet into the floor as Mora starts shoving him away, “Have you slept with him?”

“You smell.” Mora wrinkles his nose.

“You have!” Triyak spins around and Mora flounders, glares at him, “Is it the blue paladin?” His eyes go wide as Mora’s gaze darts away, “It  _ is _ .” 

“You cannot tell anyone.” Mora insists.

“Of  _ course _ not.” Triyak exclaims, “Zarkon will throw you out! We are barely allowed to  _ speak _ to them.” 

Mora wishes he could wipe the wide grin off his roommate's face, “Please stop looking at me like that.”

“The blue paladin is rumored to be the kindest.” Triyak whispers, “Is it true?”

“Ah he is kind, yes, but-” Mora shakes his head, “Blaytz is high energy and charismatic, Gyrgan is the kindest one.”

Triyak sighs at the ceiling, eyes closed, “You are so lucky.”

Mora startles a bit, frowns up at him, “How?”

“I bet he’ll take you away from this life.” Triyak curls a sweaty arm around Mora’s shoulders and he smells of flowers and salt, “He’s the leader of his people. You’ll be a king!”

Mora shoves him away, “Don’t be ridiculous. He is being  _ kind _ . Nothing more.” He points to the restroom, “Now shower.”

Triyak rolls his head and scuttles away, “Whatever you say, Mora.”

  
  
  


-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

  
  


“Am I doing something wrong?” Blaytz frowns at Mora’s back as the beautiful Galra wanders away with the latest gift. 

Trigel glances up from where she’s tinkering with her bayard, “Did he not accept the gift?” She asks.

“He did.” Blaytz nods, “He always does, but it’s with this guarded expression, like he’s unsure about accepting it.” 

“Have you told him that you like him yet?” Alfor inquires from his upside-down position on one of the sofas.

“Alfor. You are a king. Please sit right.” Trigel hisses.

Alfor huffs, “I’m not a king right now. I’m the red paladin and I’m tired. I’ll sit however I want.”

“Paladins.” Blaytz whines, “My problem, please.”

“Yes, yes.” Trigel sighs, sets down her tools, “Have you tried talking to him about it?”

“We never have time to talk anymore.” Blaytz complains, “Zarkon has everyone in the castle doing double duty while Honerva is down with the comet.” 

“It’s important.” Trigel insists, “We wouldn’t have Voltron without Honerva and her work, if she needs the servants, that’s their jobs.”

“You can still talk to him.” Alfor suggests, “Just find him later in the evening.”

“Perhaps.” Blaytz sighs heavily, “I think I’m going to have to get actual advice from a Galra.”

Alfor gasps, “You can’t mean Zarkon!”

“Blaytz, he nearly had your claspers just for asking Mora to sit with us during a feast.” Trigel admonishes, “You’ll get him in trouble.”

“I’m not going to tell him who it is.” Blaytz sniffs, “But I need to know what I’m doing wrong.”

He wanders away to the sounds of Trigel’s ‘ _ it’s your funeral _ ’ and Alfor’s quiet, ‘ _ oh leave him alone, Trig _ .’

Blaytz finds Zarkon with the black lion, cloth to her paw and buffing the sleek metal finish. Blue is in the hanger across from Black and she purrs at him as he enters. 

He sends her a wink and a mental promise to drop by after his conversation with the leader. 

Zarkon regards him carefully as he approaches, pausing in his polishing motions to wait for Blaytz to come to a halt before him. 

“I have a personal question for you.” Blaytz says.

Zarkon lifts an eyebrow, “What is the question?”

“Okay.” Blaytz shimmies his shoulders, puts out his hands, “Hypothetically, if I’m giving a Galra gifts because I like them, am I insulting them after a certain point?”

Zarkon blinks, “Hypothetically.”

Blaytz nods.

Zarkon squints, “How many gifts have been given?”

Blaytz laughs nervously, scratches at his gills, “Hypothetically? Thirty-one.”

Zarkon curses and casts his eyes to the hanger ceiling, “You might as well be asking them to marry you at this point.”

“ _ Marry?! _ ” Blaytz shouts, “I just-I think they’re wonderful and I like bringing them gifts, I wasn't trying to-.”

“They’re not insulted you idiot.” Zarkon hisses, “They’re confused as to why you haven't started the next step of the courting ritual.”

Blaytz groans, “Why does everything have to be so difficult with Galra?”

“We can’t all just flounder around and flirt with everything that moves, Blaytz.” Zarkon presses his fingers to his temples.

“Well  _ excuse _ me.” Blaytz huffs, “I haven’t flirted with anyone since! I’ve just been-.” He rolls his hands, tries to find the words and fails.

“Fixated.” Zarkon muses, “Is the Galra male or female?”

“Male.” Blaytz replies without hesitation.

“Hm.” Zarkon presses a finger to his chin, “A little different then on the courting, but not too hard. Do you want the rest of the ritual?” 

_ Does he? _

Blaytz thinks of Mora’s reaction to the first gift, the soft, wondrous expression and the breathy kiss he received at the end of the meeting. He thinks of running the backs of his fingers over Mora’s face when they’re in bed, sated and alone, his fur soft. 

“Oh, I know that look.” Zarkon’s voice is low and amused, “The next step is a meal. Cooked by you and only you. Then if they accept the meal. Combat.”

Blaytz blinks, “Combat?”

“Yes.” Zarkon nods, returns to his polishing, “A good matched pair can stand side-by-side with one another in battle. If they fight at the same levels, then they are unstoppable when faced against a common foe.” 

“Huh.” Blaytz mumbles, “Galra have some serious mating rituals.”

“That we do.” Zarkon agrees, “It is a careful process, one that usually takes a deca-phoeb.”

“Well, it’s been a couple of pheobs since we started this.” Blaytz says. 

“Then I suggest you either cut it short or move to the next step.” Zarkon states firmly, “It is rude to leave a potential mate hanging in limbo.” 

“Got it.” Blaytz nods furiously, “Though it’ll be hard to get him close for a meal or a spar.” He taps a finger to his forehead.

“Why?” Zarkon asks suspiciously.

Blaytz frowns at the floor, mumbles the reply under his breath.

Zarkon’s face twists from easy-going leader to full on Galra King in a tick.

“He’s a  _ what? _ !”

  
  
  


-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

  
  


They get married during the blue moon. 

A truly momentous holi-quintant on Blaytz’s home planet. A quintant where the four moons of Nalquod converge as one in the sky, drenching their mostly aquatic home world in a rainbow of azure hues.

Marmora’s fur is sprinkled with the dust of pearls from deep beneath the waves. Under the moonlight of Blaytz’s home, he is  _ beautiful _ dressed in the traditional Galra wedding tunic, clawed feet bare and holding the first gift Blaytz gave him close to his stomach, blade down.

Blaytz fidgets in his royal robes, skin itching for his usual paladin armor. He is not used to the silks and furs of the local wildlife anymore, always taken away by his duties and almost always in his lion.

“Stop moving around.” Trigel hisses from her spot beside him.

He glances to his left, where his fellow Paladins are lined up, all dressed in their homes traditional robes. Even Zarkon is holding his ground behind Alfor, arms behind his back and looking far less angry at the idea of Blaytz marrying his kitchen staff than he was a phoeb ago. So, bonus points to Blaytz for convincing his very strict leader to allow Mora to marry him.

Blaytz continues to watch Mora walk up the aisle, Galra and Nalquods alike scattered through the crowd. But all he can see is the man walking toward him, a small, timid smile ticking at the corner of his mouth.

He steps up to join Blaytz, taking his rightful place on his right-hand side. Mora’s smile is in his eyes when he glances at Blaytz as the priest starts their sermon.

The ceremony bounces between both of their native tongues and Blaytz is only half-listening to the words. He puts his palm out for the handfasting, threads from both their planets twisted and knotted around their joined hands in a spiderweb of promises whispered in the air between them.

Blaytz can hear Alfor and Gyrgan sniffling behind him as they tie off the knot. He leans forward to sweep the male up in a kiss, sighing as Mora opens for him eagerly.

The crow erupts in applause, echoing around the hall and surely into the streets beyond. Blaytz smiles at the sound, gathering Mora closer even as he parts from the kiss and turns a grin to his fellow paladins.

Even Zarkon smiles.

  
  


-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

  
  


He shows Mora his home that night. The twisting staircases and its small rooms, even the ones filled with water for aquatic guests.

Watching Mora’s awestruck expression as the water remains still and intact in the face of an open door is nothing short of amazing. Blaytz swells with pride at the state of his home, sweeping Mora into his own rooms, filled with rose golds and whites and looking ethereal under the blue moons rays.

He lays his new husband out on his bed, whispering a dozen more promises into the fur of his naked stomach. Mora sighs for him, claws curling around Blaytz’s ears and stroking the smooth skin. His legs part easily, a remembered thing and Blaytz warms between them.

His own hands slide up Mora’s sides and his tongue follows up his chest, tasting pearl dust and saltwater spray. 

It is intoxicatingly familiar; Mora’s body. They have made love a thousand times before now, but this time is different,  _ special _ . This is sex outside of hiding behind closed doors and hoping the royal Galra do not find them.

Mora’s paws drift away from his ears, thumbing across his gills before cupping his face and dragging him down for a kiss. Blaytz moans into it, pressing the slick slit where his claspers emerge against the straining hardness between Mora’s legs.

Mora gasps into his mouth, sharp teeth catching Blaytz’s lip. Blaytz shivers, fingers curling into Mora’s hips as he presses down harder. His claspers slip out, dripping and parted, ready to twine around his loves cock.

“Hurry.” Mora whispers against Blaytz’s cheek, “I have not touched you this way in  _ movements _ .”

Blaytz chuckles, nosing along Mora’s temple and up to his right ear. It flicks as he teases it and the hard muscle between his claspers twitches. He grinds his hips down, urges his claspers to twist and tighten around Mora’s cock, causing that beautiful back to arch and a cry to break free.

“You will take me tonight.” Blaytz growls, fingers hurried as he falls back on his knees, reaching a hand behind himself to prepare.

Mora’s eyes grow a deep, fathomless violet as he watches Blaytz stretch himself open. Those eyes burn him alive, flicking back and forth between the bright blue of Blaytz’s cocks milking him and the hitching of his wrists with every thrust of his fingers.

“Hurry.” Mora repeats, voice strangled and claws raking down Blaytz’s exposed thighs.

Blaytz cannot deny him.

His claspers fall away, reluctant and dripping, teasing the tip of Mora’s purpling cock one last time. Blaytz rises over him, stomach quivering and skin alight. Mora bites into his bottom lip, eyes narrowed between their legs and breath heaving as Blaytz sinks down on him.

The stretch is welcome, wholesome. Blaytz drops his head back, mouth parted in a warbling, wet cry. Mora’s claws dig into his flesh and his hips seize upwards, striking something inside of him that sends lighting up his spine.

“You are my everything.” Mora’s words are breathy, sincere. They are the words he whispered to Blaytz during their fasting.

They are the words he promised to bathe Blaytz with for the rest of their quintants.

Blaytz drops his hands to Mora’s chest, easing his hips into a grinding rhythm. He rides Mora like it is the first and the last time. One of Mora’s hands drifts between their stomachs and his claspers wrap around it like a long, lost friend.

Blaytz moans, arousal spearing through his veins as Mora’s fists tightens around one of his cocks, the other petting at his knuckles, begging for attention. Mora’s smile is full of mirth and mischief, his fingers tease, and his cock blinds Blaytz with pleasure.

“Come for me, husband.” Mora murmurs, eyes bright and dark and beautiful.

Blaytz can feel it rising, a tidal wave of pleasure right at the edge of his shore.

Mora drags the smooth back of a claw up the inside of his clasper and the sensation, coupled with the fierce pounding, sends Blaytz over the edge. He screams from it, antennas and ears falling back against his head in pleasure, hands shaking, bottom clenching.

His husband gasps, sharp and strangled beneath him. Blaytz can feel Mora empty inside, hot and slick. He shivers from it, collapsing against Mora’s chest with a happy sigh.

Mora’s laughter is music and his kisses pepper along his gills.

Blaytz falls asleep like that.

  
  


-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

  
  


“Again.”

Mora snarls up at his husband. He bares his teeth, but Blaytz merely stares down at him, his dual blades tucked tight behind him.

His fur is drenched in sweat and his blade is somewhere to his right, knocked out of his hands  _ again. _ They have been at this for vargas now, running drills, learning new footwork. Blaytz, for all his sweet smiles and laidback attitude, is a beat in the ring.

Of course, Mora already knew this, they’ve spared before, but something is off.

Blaytz is going harder, bearing down on him quicker. Trying to take him by surprise and hit all his weakest points with brutal accuracy. It is both attractive and confusing. Mora wants both to take him on the training room floor or slit his throat and be done with it.

“ _ Again. _ ” Blaytz snaps.

Mora growls a warning, “Not until you explain to me what has your claspers in a twist.”

Blaytz’s ears twist, just a fraction of a second and Mora knows he’s got him. Or at least, that Blaytz realizes Mora knows something is wrong.

“Let’s run it again. Retrieve your blade.”

Mora stands, slow, sore, “Speak to me.”

He watches his husband’s arms tremble. Another hit.

Mora steps over his small blade, walking carefully across the floor to where Blaytz is standing.

Narrowed blue eyes watch him, the blades tremble at his back and his ears flatten against his head.

Mora lifts both of his hands, curling one at Blaytz’s gills, the other settling at his jawline, “Blaytz.” He strokes at his husband’s skin, “Speak to me.”

The hostility in Blaytz’s posture melts away. He drops his forehead to meet Mora’s and an exhausted sigh escapes.

“Alfor is worried about the comet.”

Mora hums, “Worried that it will swallow the planet?”

“Or kill everything on the surface.” Blaytz sheaths his blades and his hands grip firm on Mora’s hips, “I would ask you to return home.”

Mora frowns, “To Nalquod?”

Blaytz nods, “As soon as you are able.”

Mora shakes his head, “No.” His hands tighten, claws digging into the flesh of Blaytz’s neck, “I will not leave you behind.”

Blaytz grins weakly, “I’m a paladin of Voltron, I must stay and protect the planet, but I cannot guarantee your safety if I am not at your side.”

“I do not need you to protect me, Blaytz.” Mora whispers fervently, “I can take care of myself, you have made sure of that.”

“I cannot lose you.” Blaytz admits.

“Nor I you.” Mora returns, “I knew before I agreed to marry you that your paladin duties meant possible death. You fight for the universe, it comes with great risk.”

“But that does not mean I wish to lose  _ you _ .” Blaytz hisses, “I cannot return, and you be gone, I would not be able to-.”

“Shh.” Mora brings their mouths together in a kiss, “I will return to our home, if it would ease you.”

Blaytz nods, pulling Mora closer to his chest. The hug is a good bye in itself, Mora realizes. Who knows with Honerva will deem the comet secure enough.

He takes in the sea-salt scent of his husband’s skin, wonders if this will be enough to get him through the next few movements of loneliness.

A throat clears behind them. Mora pulls away long enough to spot Trigel at the doors, looking apologetic and sad.

“Apologies. Zarkon is requesting all of us in the meeting room.” Trigel says.

“I’ll be there in a few ticks.” Blaytz nods in her direction, “I am telling my husband good bye.”

“Of course, safe travels Marmora.”

“To you as well, Trigel.” Mora calls after her. He returns his gaze to Blaytz, smile forced on his face, “You are my everything.” The words come out too soft, too broken. This is not truly good bye, Alfor and Honerva are geniuses. They’ll fix it.

Blaytz lifts his hand and Mora places his own against it, palm to palm. Two different species, two different worlds.

“And you are mine.” Blaytz replies.

  
  
  


-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

  
  


“ _ TRIGEL! _ ” Blaytz leaps across the Altean bridge, arm outstretched and hand locking tight around the green paladin’s wrist.

She yelps at the wrenching of her shoulder, but her grip is iron in his own. Her bayard is gone, lost to the sea of fire and smoke beneath the bridge. Blaytz pulls her up slowly, gathering her into his arms and patting blindly for his swords.

Grygan is dead, mere feet behind him, and Blaytz cannot bear to look. Trigel helps him stand, the gaping wound in his side made worse by her sudden fall.

“Where is Alfor?” Trigel shouts over the gun fire and roar of flames.

“I do not know.” Blaytz grits his teeth, “But we must find him before Zarkon does.”

Trigel stumbles under his weight, but they march on towards the castle of lions. Altean soldiers fall left and right, trying to make a path for what is left of the Voltron Paladin’s. Civilians scream in the distance.

Blaytz glances over his shoulder.

The fire and the panic, the sheer  _ destruction _ of it.

Will his planet be next? Will Trigel’s? Gyrgan’s? 

How far will Zarkon go?

“We must keep moving.” Trigel insists, “We must save Alfor and Allura.”

Blaytz nods fervently, pumping all that he has left into walking. It takes them too long; the entire planet burns around them, and their lions are too far out of reach.

When they reach the castle’s bridge, the shield is up and Alfor is all that stands between Zarkon’s massive form and the barrier.

“It is lost to you.” Alfor’s voice booms.

“You  _ will _ give me my lion, Alfor.” Zarkon snarls, throwing out a hand. His bayard opens, drenched in the blood of Alteans and Galra alike.

“You’ll have to kill me.” Alfor puffs out his chest, holding his own bayard before him, “You may have taken my planet, but you will not take any more than that.”

“ _ You destroyed mine _ !” Zarkon shouts.

He charges forward and Alfor meets him, blades clashing in sparks.

The fight is fast and gruesome, Zarkon is not the same man they fought beside. Not anymore.

He takes Alfor out with a quick jab through the chest.

Trigel screams beside him, her small hands curl into Blaytz’s flesh. He wishes he was strong enough to fight. He wishes Trigel had her bayard. 

He wishes they had their lions.

A spark of green shoots through the barrier of the castle.

“No.” Zarkon hisses, shoving Alfor’s limp body to the ground.

A spark of yellow follows.

“ **_NO_ ** _! _ ”

“Our lions.” Trigel gasps.

Blaytz’s heart clenches.

A spark of blue disappears into the stars.

_ So long, blue. Until we meet again. _

Zarkon turns to them, eyes glowing purple and bayard stretched out at his side.

“Only two left.” He sneers.

Blaytz stands his ground. Despite the heartache at the loss of his lion, his paladins. The realization that Marmora will wake up across the galaxy and hear the news.

He’ll wake up  _ alone _ .

Blaytz tightens the grip on his blades. He hands one to Trigel, shoves her away so he can stand.

“We die fighting.” Blaytz snaps.

Trigel takes the offered sword with a determined nod.

They turn to Zarkon together.

  
  
  


-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

  
  
  


Mora wakes with a scream.

He grapples at his chest, ripping his night shirt open and patting frantically at the fur. There is no blood, no hole.

He is not dying, but it feels like it.

He throws the covers away, grasping frantically for the blade on his nightstand. It secures his rapid heartbeat, but does not quell the tight fear in his chest. He presses it to his chest, gasping, trying to make the fear dissipate.

A frantic knock at his door pulls him out of the bed. His feet are quick and cold across the floor as he throws the door open.

A fuchsia-skinned Nalquod stands there, tears streaking her face and ears pressed so far back he can barely see them.

“Sire.” She croaks.

Mora swallows the bile that rises in his throat, “What has happened?”

“S-sire-.” She whimpers, “Paladin Zarkon has destroyed Altea. Darbizaal is gone as well.”

Mora scrambles for the doorframe, blade clattering to the ground, “Where are the other paladins?” He asks frantically.

“Dead.” She gasps, pressing a shaking hand to her mouth, “He killed  _ everyone _ .”

Everything around him slows. The Nalquod’s running down the hall, trying to quell the panic. His heartbeat. The woman before him, her hand on his shoulder as he hits the ground, agony lacing through his chest like gunfire.

“We must-.” His voice shakes, “We must-.”

She lowers to his level, eyes wide, “Sire?”

He lifts his eyes to her, “We must secure the planet.”

“We must mourn!” She gasps, “Our prince is dead!”

He takes both of her hands, squeezes them, “If Zarkon has taken Altea, he will surely be set on others. We must secure our borders.” He allows her to help him back to his feet, “Alert all planets in Altea’s galaxy. Zarkon goes no further.”

  
  


-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

 

Zarkon creates an army in a matter of vargas.

He sweeps through Altea’s galaxy like a plague, destroying planets and killing all who refuse to stand with him. Nalquod takes in refugees under the order of Marmora, giving them safe passage to neighboring galaxies untouched by Zarkon’s horror.

Mora does not have time to mourn for a pheob.

Not until Zarkon’s ship clears their skies and sets fire to Nalquod.

Mora is ushered to a bunker with others, locked inside despite his protests.

“Blaytz may be dead, sire.” The soldier lifts his chin high, “But I am still under oath to keep you safe at all costs.”

The door slams shut, and Mora throws himself against it, snarling.

Children and their parents whimper and cry behind him. Soldiers try to ease the pain of broken fins, bones, hearts.

Mora drops his forehead to the cool metal of the bunker door and listens as the world burns above them. He drags his claws down the door, the sound terrible in the small space. But no one stops him.

He slides to his knees, his chest hitches with the threat of tears.

No.

Not now.

He squeezes his eyes closed.

A hand falls to his shoulder, “Marmora, please.” One of the soldiers, one who has been in service since their wedding.

“Leave me be.” Mora pleads, “I cannot-.”

“We shall allow you to mourn in peace, sire.” The soldier whispers, gentle hands bringing him to stand once more, “Come with me.”

Mora allows himself to be lead, through the seated survivors, all staring up at him in agony and fear. The room he’s placed in is for royalty, judging by décor. A bed with beige sheets, nightstands with food and drink. A table set with steaming tea.

“I refuse to stay here.” Mora hisses, twisting around to stare at the soldier, “Not while they are out in the dirt, waiting for the war to be over.”

The soldier presses a hand to his chest, squeezes, “Mourn.” He insists, “Your husband has passed, and you have not stopped. When you are done, we will bring them in here on your command.”

His footsteps are soft as he retreats, and the door snaps closed.

Mora does not find a chair or sit on the bed. He hits the ground, the cry from his chest brutal and broken. He allows it to consume him. The anger, the loss. It swirls through him and tears apart his heart, breaking everything bit of strength he has left.

He reaches for the blade in his boot. The one Blaytz gave him, so long ago in Zarkon’s palace. An eager smile on his face and a promise to teach him.

He holds it in his hands, unsure if he can keep it any longer. This small trinket, so useless, but so dear to his heart. It holds too many memories.

Could he even live with it? Could he use it in battle and not think of the man who gave it to him?

_ No. _

This small room is no place to mourn.

He will never be done mourning Blaytz. He will spend the rest of his _ life _ mourning him. Every waking moment he will claw at his own species throats and bring them to their knees and make them  _ beg _ for his forgiveness. For following a mad-man’s lead. For allowing this man to kill innocent lives in the name of revenge, in the name of a tainted empire.

Because, one quintant, Marmora will emerge to the people outside the room and they will only see Galra. They will not see husband of their prince, friend of their friends, they will only see the fire and the flame and the death in the name of the Galra Empire.

He strokes his thumb over the wrapped handle of the blade, watches it shine from the candles in the room.

As Galra, it is his duty to stop this.

He  _ must  _ do something. He  _ must stand up _ .

The blade grows warm under his palm. It shines a deep, neon violet and the wrapping under his hand melts away into sparks. The revealed handle is dark blue, a symbol carved into the side, glowing the same shade of purple and pulsing in his hand. He almost drops it, but as it begins to grow, to lengthen from the base, he tightens his grip.

It curves now, in a perfect imitation of Blaytz’s scimitars.

He runs his fingers over the edges, heart in his throat and awe in the shape of his mouth.

_ “On my planet-.” Blaytz grins, “A longsword is the symbol of a great champion. A master of the blade.” _

_ Mora snorts, flicking the tiny blade in his hand, “And yet here I am.” _

_ Blaytz’s laugh is a deep boom, “That is a dagger, love. I will have a sword made for you.” _

_ Mora sighs and smiles, “I am not master of any blade, dearest.” _

_ “Ah.” Blaytz sweeps him into a kiss, “But some quintant you will be.” He cups Mora’s face, “I cannot wait to see you wield one.” _

Mora chokes on a sob, continuing to run his hands reverently over the blade.

He knows what he must do.

  
  
  
  


-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

  
  


Marmora leaves Nalquod behind.

His husbands people shower him with what little they have left to offer for survival. Scattered supplies, a tiny bit of food, and one small ship. It is hard to turn away from the people who have given him so much, who his husband walked beside and nurtured the growth of. He does not feel worthy of ruling a people who are afraid of the face he wears. 

He spends movements in pawn shops and black market niches of nebulas trying to find the creator of his new blade. They only wish to buy it from him or steal it when he is not looking, but Mora is well versed in the world of vagabonds. He evades them with ease and continues his journey.

It isn’t until he runs into a group of rebel Galra that he finds its meaning.

They are fighting a handful of Zarkon’s men in the bowels of an old cave. Each fighter is well trained, former military, Mora assumes. They drop down from ledges and take out the armored soldiers with a practiced ease.

Mora watches the fight for a few ticks before a hidden soldier emerges from the shadows and rushes one of the rebels from behind. He jumps out, blade at the ready. The soldier is surprised to see him, rightfully so and Mora takes advantage of that surprise. He strikes him down easily, and the dust erupts under the body.

A sword levels with his throat.

“Name yourself or you die.” The tallest Galra demands, his fur darker than the rest, streaked with white at the temples and tips of his ears. Four others step alongside him, two of identical shades of purple and facial features, one with large ears and a sloped nose, the other nearly white with a whip-like tail.

Mora tugs down the cloth hiding his nose and mouth, pushes back the one covering his head.

“Galra.” One breathes.

“Marmora, actually.” Mora clears his throat.

The sword lowers and the Galra sheathes it, “I am Ronak.” He bows, “This is Anat,” The large eared one, “Siket and Sirat,” The twins, “and Turan.” The white one.

Mora bows his head, “Marmora of Nalquod.”

“Nalquod?” Turan mumbles, “The fish people?”

Mora’s laugh is soft, “Not quite. My husband was their prince.”

Ronak’s eyebrow shoots up, “Prince Blaytz? He died pheobs ago along with the rest of the paladins of Voltron.”

“Yes.” Mora lowers his eyes.

“Condolences, brother.” The twins speak as one, “Why are you not among your people?”

“I am Galra.” Mora shrugs, “Zarkon murdered my husband, destroyed his planet.”

“Revenge then?” Anat beats his chest, “Something we all share. Zarkon has tainted the Galra name.”

“That he has.” Mora agrees, “However, my revenge is not loud. I am-.” He shows them the blade, “looking for the creator of this blade.”

Turan gasps, hands outstretched, “May I?”

Mora is hesitant to release it, but he allows Turan to touch.

“Amazing.” Turan whispers, “This blade is only spoken about in our history books.”

“Really?” Anat frowns, “What is so special about it?”

Turan smiles, taps the symbol on the handle, “It is a weapon forged and passed down through either warriors or blood-ties. Each wielder must unlock the blade by performing a sacrifice or giving up something of great importance.” He slides a clawed finger along the edge of the blade, “It is no bigger than a butter knife in the beginning, a tool for a child, until it is unlocked. Then it becomes a blade worthy of any fight.”

Mora stares down at it, hope rising in his chest, “Is there a way to make more?”

Turan’s eyebrows crease, “ _ More _ ? You have a blade so rare it could be the only one in existence, why would you want more?”

“Because.” Mora grins, showing teeth, “Each of you will need one.”

  
  
  


-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

  
  
  


Mora arches his back, rubbing at the hip and hating how the bones snap and crack as he moves. He has been sitting for so long. His fingers are burnt from the welding, the crackling of wires and fraying of metal.

A cup of steaming milk is set at his elbow and a warm paw squeezes his shoulder. He smiles up at Turan, who peers down at the project between his own paws.

“Coming along then?” Turan asks.

Mora lifts the device to his face, presses a button. It shimmers a dark blue and creates a mask, easy as anything. He smiles behind it and Turan cannot see his face, but Mora can see the awed surprise on his.

“Brilliant.” Turan whispers reverently.

“It is not fully complete, but once it is, we can begin our mission.” Mora presses the button again and the mask melts back into its folds. He sets it on the table, leans down and rubs at his temples, “Are the blades done?”

“Yes.” Turan replies, “Siket and Anat are the last to go through the trials.”

“Hmmm.” Mora takes a sip of the milk, lets it rest heavy and warm in the pit of his stomach, “I am proud of you all.”

“You have given us purpose, Marmora.” Turan insists, “You have given us order in the face of Chaos. This entire mission will change the course of Zarkon’s rule for decade’s. We will finally be able to dent and hinder him.”

“But that is all we can do.” Mora sighs, “Until the Paladin’s of Voltron return.”

  
  
  


-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

  
  
  


“Get your hands off me!”

Mora watches the thief hit his knees. He is young, so very, very young. Mora has not seen a Galra this young in deca-phoebs, at least, not one with so much fight in them.

“You have something that belongs to me.” Mora steps down from his spot between his Blades.

The young one hisses, turning defiant white eyes up at him, “I have  _ nothing _ .”

Mora chuckles, waves a hand at Turan, who is standing vigil at Mora’s right side, “Relieve him of his weapon.”

Turan accosts the boy, pulling a small dagger from deep within a ragged pocket. The young one shouts, eyes wide, “No! I found it!”

“Did you?” Mora takes the blade in his old hands, feels its gentle weight.

“The one who had it was dead.” He explains, “I thought it just a blade.”

Mora glances up at the Blade who brought the young one in, “Who?”

“Dara, Master.”

Mora grows somber, “A brave blade.” He flips the blade in the air, catches it by the handle, “What is your name, boy?”

“K-Kolivan.”

“Kolivan.” Mora tastes the name, eyes the young Galra. He nods at Turan, “Acceptable.”

Turan steps forward, taking the blade from Mora and holding it hilt down towards the young one. 

Kolivan reaches up slowly, hesitant, “Who  _ are _ you?”

Mora raises a finger and his blades follow suit, revealing their faces, one by one. Kolivan’s eyes widen once again as he takes in familiar features.

“We are the Blades of Marmora.” Turan intones, “Should you complete the trials and successfully awaken this blade, you will join us in the fight against Emperor Zarkon.”

Mora smiles down at the boy, “Good luck.”

The blades lead Kolivan out of the room. Mora and Turan walk together to the viewing quarters, where they will see whether the young one is truly worthy of being a blade.

“I still do not like the name.” Mora sighs.

Turan laughs, throaty and full, “You have said that for hundreds of deca-phoebs, Mora.”

“And yet you have not changed it.” Mora sneers at him.

They watch the monitors, tracking Kolivan’s movements.

“He is quite young.” Turan notes.

“The youngest of us all.” Mora smiles, forlorn, “I do not have long.”

Turan’s eyes close, face pained, “I know.”

“You will take over.” Mora orders, “He will follow you.” He nods to Kolivan, who clears the second room and finds his blade in the third.

“A record.” Turan breathes.

“Indeed.” Mora curls his fingers around the chair in front of him, “Thank for you for joining me, in the beginning, Turan.”

“I should be thanking you.” Turan scoffs, “We would still be on that planet, fighting in the dirt and gaining no traction.”

“Nonsense.” Mora admonishes, “Every fight against the Galra empire is a worthy fight, no matter how insignificant it seems.”

“Some quintants if feels as though we have accomplished nothing.” Turan admits sadly, “But I know we have made a difference under your tutelage.”

“I had wished-.” Mora croaks, “That I would be alive when the Paladin’s of Voltron returned.”

“They will return, Mora.” Turan promises, “And when they do, the Blades will be ready to assist them in any way possible.”

“Thank you.” Mora swallows, “Leave me for a bit?”

Turan bows, “As you wish.”

Mora waits until the door closes behind Turan before allowing the cough to rack through his body. He wheezes, thumping his chest and hating the pain that spears him. His body aches and the strain from the quintant is already wearing him down.

He glances up at the computer screen, watches Kolivan mingle among the other Blades.

“Blaytz.” He whispers to the air, “I miss you.” It’s been thousands of deca-phoebs and the pain does not abate. “I wish you could see this.”

He joins Turan and the other Blades in the ceremony room.

Kolivan is handed his gear and his mask. He holds his blade proudly in his dominant hand, grinning from ear to ear.

Mora’s old, soft heart melts at the sight of yet another blade.

“Welcome, young Kolivan.” He spreads his arms, “To the Blades of Marmora.”

  
  
  
  


-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

  
  
  
  


“Whoa.” Keith drops back against his chair, “Just. Whoa.”

“Ditto, dude.” Hunk nods.

Kolivan sheaths his blade, “And that is the full story on the origin of the Blades.”

“That was  _ beautiful _ .” Allura gasps, hand on her chest, eyes misting, “I knew Blaytz had been married, but my goodness, I was too young to remember to whom.”

Coran strokes his mustache, “I met Mora a few times, but I did not know his full name. We only knew him as Mora.” He shrugs, “That’s what Blaytz always called him, anyway.”

“How old  _ are _ you?” Pidge interrupts, “How long do Galra live? I mean, Mora had to be a few thousand deca-phoebs old before he died!”

“I am not sure.” Kolivan squinted, “I was very young when the blades took me in. He died a deca-phoeb after I joined. We buried him on Nalquod, beside the monument for Blaytz.”

“Good.” Shiro whispered, “I hope he rests well.”

A sniffle breaks the silence, then a sob.

Keith glances behind him where Lance is staring straight at Kolivan, full on crying.

“Uh-Lance?” Keith lifts an eyebrow, “Are you  _ crying _ ?”

“ _ YES _ .” Lance shouts, throwing out his hands, “I thought the founder of the Blades was going to be this crusty old Galra who wanted to be a secret ninja!”

Shiro opens his mouth, “Wait-what-?”

“And he turns out to be the  _ husband _ of the last blue paladin? And he was so determined to wait for what? A reincarnation of the love of his life? So, he created an entire secret sect of Galra’s to fight back and prepare everything for our arrival?”

“That is what I just spent the better part of six vargas explaining.” Kolivan grits his teeth, “Yes.”

Lance puts his face in his hands, “That the most tragic romance I’ve ever heard.”

“Indeed.” Kolivan agrees, “When Turan told me the story, I was given a new resolve. I did not wish to lead the Blades, but after-.” He sighs, “It was hard to say no. Marmora was a great Galra and a better leader than Zarkon could ever hope to be. Yet he lived in the shadows and mourned Blaytz till the end of his quintants.”

“He gave everything and asked for nothing.” Shiro muttered.

“He begged, some nights.” Kolivan cleared his throat, “When he thought us all asleep or away on missions. You could hear him beg to have Blaytz back or even a whisper of him, in the next blue paladin.”

“And he didn’t live long enough to meet me.” Lance murmurs.

“A shame.” Kolivan hums, “He would have liked you.”

Lance whimpers.

“Thanks for the story.” Allura sighs happily, “It is still hard to hear about the destruction of Altea and the death of my father, but I am glad some good rose from the ashes of such destruction.”

“Happy to oblige, princess.” Kolivan bows his head.

“Alright everyone. Time to get some sleep. Drills in the morning.” Shiro rises from his seat and a chorus of groans follows.

“Are you ready to depart, young blade?” Kolivan inquires.

Keith glances at his former paladins as they bicker and chat towards the hallway, “I hoped to uh-.”

Kolivan lifts a paw, “Say no more. We shall leave tomorrow.”

Keith grins and spins on his heels, catching up to Shiro and the others. Kolivan watches them go, the princess and Coran right behind.

“There they go.” Kolivan turns a shoulder to the viewing deck. The stars are even more beautiful after a story, “Your new Paladin’s.” He swallows back the memories of soft violet eyes and a stern voice telling him how  _ proud I am of you, Kolivan. _

He casts his eyes away from the stars just in time to see Lance sling an arm around Pidge’s shoulders, Shiro to pat Keith on the back, “I wish you could see this, Marmora.”

 

 

**End**

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for your continued support, kudos, and comments!
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](http://gabrielsthighz.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter!](https://twitter.com/gabrielsthighz)
> 
> Also, please check out the fics inspired by the post! I'll add them as they come to me!
> 
> [mar-mor-a](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12852687) \- by GemmaRose


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